


Never Gonna Leave This Bed

by Hella_Queer



Series: Let Me Borrow That Top [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bill Denbrough Loves Mike Hanlon, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Everyone lives but this ain’t about them, Fluff, M/M, Mike Hanlon Loves Bill Denbrough, Tickling, Wrestling, they real cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24748321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hella_Queer/pseuds/Hella_Queer
Summary: Productivity is for the birds.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Series: Let Me Borrow That Top [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1793875
Comments: 7
Kudos: 49





	Never Gonna Leave This Bed

**Author's Note:**

> rated T for “tasty implications” 
> 
> I haven’t seen a lot of bike banter! I feel like there needs to be more, so I made more! 
> 
> Andy said what if they cuddled. What if they did indeed.
> 
> Also I urge you to google how big an Alaskan king mattress is, just to get a full picture. It’s worth it trust me
> 
> (loosely connected to Wear You Out but can be read as a stand alone)

They splurged on an Alaskan King bed. 

Mike was used to the bare minimum. He was used to taking what he could get, to stretching early in the morning and before he went to bed, to flipping his old mattress whenever his body settled into the impression right in the middle. When Bill sold his fancy house Mike assumed he would want an apartment, or a condo. He also assumed that his own, unrequited love would go on quietly for another two decades. He’s never been happier to be wrong. 

The new house, _their_ house, is nice. The neighborhood is quiet, the backyard is big and fenced off, the office at the back of the house had a lovely window seat, which was the only thing Bill regretted about losing his old place. The kitchen opened up into the living room and the master bathroom had a tub big enough for Mike to sink down to his shoulders. But they went all out on the bed. When Richie saw how absolutely massive it was he laughed himself to tears and wrote half a set about orgies and the repressed sexual energy of men in their forties. 

He wasn’t wrong, but he didn’t need to say it. 

Mike was used to the basics, but there’s something to be said about waking up on a firm cloud, neck fully supported, lower back cracking only once when he rolls over to check the time on his phone. He hears a yawn from behind him, and smiles at the bright eyes that beam up at him from his lock screen. 

“Mikey?” His name is nothing but air, a vaguely H sounding beginning, with an Eee as it tapers off towards the end. 

“Hey, sleepy,” Mike says, settling back into his pillow. He stretches his arms out then rests them behind his head, squinting at the sunlight that filters in from the window above their heads. Perhaps the only design flaw of their bedroom, but he liked it. It was as if they were underwater, mermen in a cozy cave, wrapped in warm seaweed or. Sand or something. He wasn’t awake enough for prose. 

Bill yawns again, pops his left hip, then pries his eyes open. He makes a face at Mike, at the pillows that separate them. Then he reaches out with one hand, fingers wiggling, fist opening and closing, the biggest pout on his face. With his messy hair and heavy eyes it’s impossible to see him as anything but utterly adorable.

“Why are you so far away?” He whines in the cutest voice that Mike has ever heard. Except for yesterday morning, and the morning before that, and the first Christmas they spent together after they kissed under the mistletoe. Now he’s clawing at the air, making goddamn grabby hands, swimming in the shirt Mike had discarded before showering last night. 

“You moved in your sleep, Billy.” Mike tells him, adopting a cutesy voice almost against his will. “Rolled right out of my arms.”

“Did not.” Bill shuffles, wiggles, gives up halfway across and collapses with a huff. Their bed was massive, big enough for all of the Losers to fit in _somewhere_ , so seeing Bill struggle his way towards him with loose limbs and needy eyes makes Mike melt like microwaved butter. He closes the distance between them and guides Bill to lay on his chest, who hums happily and makes himself right at home, nose buried in the dip of his collarbone. 

“What time did you come to bed last night?” He pets through Bill’s hair, terribly fond of the grey that’s taking over the brown. The red from his youth has washed out, along with his hard shell. Big Bill was the leader, keeping everyone together, hiding his pain until it bubbled to the surface like a pot boiling over. Mike likes the brown, the grey, the age. He likes Bill. 

“Don’t remember,” Bill mumbles, licks his dry lips so they stick a little to Mike’s skin. “Two? Three? Maybe this is a dream and I’m still downstairs. Or—“

Mike tugs lightly at his ear, shushing him. Early morning writer brain was often hit or miss, but if Bill got especially existential while his walls were down his mood might not recover for days on end. It was best to stick to the present, to stay grounded. To not think of the _maybes_ or the _what if’s_. Or the deadlights. It always went back to the deadlights. During his own moments of doubt Mike swore to himself that he knew things were real, that he could feel the difference now that the fog had lifted from his eyes. That even back in Derry, even with the nightmares, the decades between disappearances, he was certain he knew when IT was alive, when he was active, and when he wasn’t. 

“You need to start wearing your own pajamas,” he says, eager to change the subject, hoping Bill is still lethargic enough to let his thoughts float away. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t leave your clothes on the floor, then.” Bill stretches up to nip at his chin, eyes more alert but steady, aware of his surroundings and perfectly happy to stay right where he is. Mike hugs him a little tighter. 

“I don’t see how that would help, considering you would just pluck it from the laundry.” 

Bill blows a raspberry against his neck, and Mike realizes he hasn’t grown out of being ticklish there. “That happened once!”

“Once a month, yeah!” 

Bill digs his fingers into his ribs, faking him out so that Mike forgets to turtle his chin into his neck. Mike has always hated his laugh, a side effect of living in a town that hated you for not being dead. Bill has made it his mission to bring it out any chance he gets, which includes dirty tricks like this. Mike tries to retaliate but his limbs are weak and he enjoys the weight and warmth of Bill on top of him much more than he wants to keep quiet. 

“Mercy! Mercy!” Mike gets out between badly suppressed snorts. His stomach hurts, he’s got an awful case of the giggles, and Bill grins down at him in triumph. 

“I win,” he declares softly, but when their lips meet in a warm, slow kiss, Mike can’t help but feel that he’s the true victor. 

“What’s your prize?”

“You, of course.”

Mike groans and covers his face with his hand, pushing Bill aside so he flops off of him and onto the bed. “That was awful. That’s so cheesy. You get paid to write stuff like that?”

Bill grabs one of their many pillows and wacks him in the chest. It’s a dense one, too, some foamy-bead mix that Stan once described as soft concrete. Mike intercepts him after the fifth time, sitting up and wrestling the weapon from Bill’s grasp, and then wrestling _Bill_ to the complete other side of the bed. Mike pins him down at the waist, using his own body to render him useless. Bill wraps his legs around him, trying and failing to look scolding. 

Mike, resting comfortably with his chin on Bill’s stomach, grins up at him. “Hey there.”

“Hi.”

“You come here often?”

Bill thumbs at the corner of his mouth, his tone almost casual enough to be believed. “Here? Not as often as I’d like.” 

Mike kisses the pad of his thumb, hands inching their way under Bill’s shirt. He shifts higher, the shirt rising with him, until he can kiss the corner of Bill’s mouth and traces patterns across his chest. Bill arches up against him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, one of his favorite features about Mike. He loved his smile, his dark eyes, his big hands, the way he wasn’t afraid to bite a little harder than most. The sting only highlighted the sweetness of his tongue, the gentle pecks to his throbbing lips. 

“Would you still date me if I was a worm?” Bill asks when they pull apart. 

“Are you an earthworm or something else? And are you actual size or would you be a giant, human sized worm?” He lays down on his side and Bill throws one leg over him and slips the other in between. Mike slips his hand down the back of his boxers and hauls him in close. 

“The idea of a human sized worm is terrifying,” Bill sighs. “But I can’t imagine just. Being a common earthworm. What if you step on me?”

Mike scoffs, offended. “I would never! I’d build you a little home in a nice jar. Or I’d turn your office into a dirt box. Open up the back of the house so you could go outside.” He rubs circles into the small of Bill’s back with his thumb, often returning to one of his dimples. Bev suggested he get them pierced but he declined the offer, saying he preferred to have them filled with something else. Nobody let him live that down, the group chat was buzzing for almost two hours. 

Bill giggles to himself, eyes slipping closed. “I wanna be an Alaskan Bull Worm.”

Mike barks a laugh. “Alaskan Bill Worm.”

“Yes!” Bill pats his chest, getting distracted by the slight give, the firm muscle. Goddamn, librarians weren’t supposed to be this fit but if there’s one thing Mike didn’t lose during all of this it was his strong frame. “Maybe then you’ll be able to ride me.” 

Which only sets off another tickle war, this one ending with them in the middle of the bed, Bill once again trapped in Mike’s grip. He doesn’t mind, especially since he’s at the perfect to lick along his sternum. 

“You’re cute,” Mike murmurs, words juxtaposing the way Bill palms him over his sweatpants. “Cute cute—“

“Careful there, buddy. You know Richie has three-times-a-cute trademarked.”

“As if he would know.”

Mike’s phone on the bedside table starts to ring with the tell-tale tone of a video call. He cranes his neck to get a better look, and is shocked so badly he drops down to a prone position right on top of Bill. 

“It’s Richie?!”

“Oh shit!”

They dive under the covers, muffling their hissing and snorting laughs into their hands. They maintain eye contact, tearing up with how hard they’re holding back. It’s warm under the covers, but they stay even after the sound fades to the vibrations of an active group chat. Or a lot of double texting. Mike is grinning wide enough to show off the wrinkles high in his cheeks. 

“Billy my love.”

“No! Shut up, he _will_ materialize in the fucking shower.”

“Babylove.”

“Mike!” Bill pulls his knees up to his chest and starts shoving him away with his feet, crawling away. “If Stan calls next I’m putting you out on the street.” He doesn’t make it very far because Mike has a firm handful of his thigh, and it's a very familiar sensation. A very distracting one, too. 

“What happened to Losers stick together?” He doesn’t even sound winded, perfectly capable of keeping Bill right where he wants him. The thought is brain scrambling. 

“We don’t stand a chance against a possessive, codependent feral ferret. Add Patty to the mix and we’ll be swimming with the fishes.”

“You _really_ need better phrases.”

“Everyone’s a damn critic.”

Bill twists, shouting when he slips free and lunges across the bed, damn near slipping off. Mike manages to grab him round the waist and uses his momentum to send them right back to the middle. He’s laughing, the sound vibrating through Bill like he’s an amplifier. He wiggles his hips strategically but Mike doesn’t budge. 

“I can do this all day,” Mike tells him. “I’ve got nowhere to go and nobody to be but yours.”

Bill rolls his eyes, which Mike can’t see, but he can most definitely hear the smile in his voice. “Now who’s being cheesy?” He eyes the hand creeping back under his shirt, fighting back the urge to move it lower or spread his legs or anything else. Mike stops right below where his heart is, and Bill sighs, almost a swoon even though he really doesn’t mean to let it slip out. 

“Still you, I think.” Mike moves him around, Bill being as unhelpful as possible, until he’s tucked against his side. He presses a firm kiss to Bill’s forehead, eyes dancing with mirth and affection. 

The phone rings again. 

“They’re coming to get us,” Bill groans. 

“Bet you breakfast it’s Stan.”

“It’s absolutely Ben. Bev put him up to it at Richie’s insistence.”

Mike considers this, legs crossing at the ankles. “Could be Eddie. It would be just like him to one up Richie by seeing if I would answer him but not Richie.”

Bill considers this, propping himself up one his elbow. “Alright. If it’s Stan or Eddie you win, if it’s Ben or Bev I win.”

“Deal.”

They kiss to make it official. One more for good luck. Three more because they keep smiling and ruining it. One more because five is an odd number. Two more to make it seven. 

By the time they bother to look, which is long after the calls stop coming, they've forgotten what they were betting about in the first place. 

(It was Patty.)


End file.
